


Lucky

by WaldosAkimbo



Series: Quick and Dirty Good Omens Crack or Drabbles [13]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has 2 Dicks, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Eating, Hemipenes, I honestly don't know what to tag this, M/M, Sex, angel biology is weird, auto cannibalism sorta, bumped it up to explicit for chapter 2, he's eating little buddings of himself, just be warned, molting, now on chapter 2, soft vore??, that's not a proper lube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:54:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27122809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaldosAkimbo/pseuds/WaldosAkimbo
Summary: Aziraphale has gone through a shedding and, well, what are you supposed to do with little buddings of your essence?You eat them.Crowley is, justifiably, horrified.
Series: Quick and Dirty Good Omens Crack or Drabbles [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1789003
Comments: 18
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was thinking of little malformed things popping off Aziraphale that look like marshmallow versions of himself that aren't sentient and probably taste delicious. -shrug emoji here- Finally. A proper crack for the crack and drabbles category. Also I marked it mature because I have no idea how to tag this one.

It was the pleasing crunch after each bite. There was a meatiness to it, of course, a substantial bulk to cut his teeth into, but it was so light on the palate, which of course made it irresistible. Hard not to return to the dish and scoop up another. Aziraphale, his nose titled up so he could continue looking through the tiny circular spectacles, pushed around the bowl without looking, before he plucked up a second and pushed it into his mouth.

 _Crunch_.

 _Melt_.

 _Repeat_.

He had gone through half of them when he sensed more than heard Crowley trying to sneak up on him. The demon had his hands pinched into his pockets, ambling back through the maze of books to Aziraphale’s hidden desk.

“Listen, I don’t care what you said over the line,” Crowley was saying and side-stepped just before he knocked over a stack. He hinged at the waist. Definitely not bowing to the stack. Definitely not apologizing to it, even silently. Nope. That would be silly. “But I still submit you were acting—”

It was the silent that pulled Aziraphale up from his records, even as he pressed his thumb against his lips, the little lumpy thing squishing until he dimpled a half-formed rump. He hummed, _crunched_ , and wiped the corner of his mouth.

“Pardon?” Aziraphale managed around the mouthful of matter. He hummed again and his eyes tracked down to the big wooden bowl beside him and the pale forms within it. His own eyes widened to match Crowley’s and he raised his fingers to snap the mess away, hide his horrible habit, and pretend profusely that _that_ was definitely _not_ what Crowley had seen.

“Whu—”

“I can explain!”

“Y—”

“ _I can explain!_ ”

It was unfortunate that Crowley’s hand had closed over his own before he could move the collection to somewhere more sensible. Like the surface of the moon. They each turned to look into it. It could just as easily be mistaken for bao, fluffy little dumplings, the skin pale white and somewhat translucent. They did look steamed, a shine over them and they shifted so slowly that one had to stare quite a while to note they were moving at all.

“I didn’t – I don’t – listen. Crowley! I don’t have…I don’t need…well!”

Crowley’s eyes dragged away from the sheddings and stuck to Aziraphale like a single if beautiful feather landing on wet tar.

“You were eating them?” Crowley asked slowly.

“No!” But Aziraphale squirmed a bit in his chair, cognizant that Crowley was still holding his hand. He should yank it back away, but if he did, Crowley may never touch him again and that thought was nearly dreadful as the shame of being caught doing, well, this. “Yes, but I can explain.”

“Okay.”

“But I don’t want to.”

“…okay….”

Aziraphale huffed and nearly tipped the bowl over. Covering it would be the next best solution to making the little moltings disappear. Probably needed somewhere further than the moon. Wasn’t Jupiter difficult to set foot on? All that pressure. That might do it.

But Crowley was being so damnably patient, even in his horror, that Aziraphale thought he might explode.

“I’ve been putting it off,” he started, his voice warbling somewhere close to _wet_ and _laughter_. “It wasn’t ideal during, well, you know. With Adam and everything. And then we were….”

“Yes?”

“Getting on and! Well, there were more than…I didn’t mean…I mean, you _shed_.”

“I don’t _eat_ it!” Crowley snapped back before he pressed his mouth into a line. He really was trying to understand, curse him. “Sorry.”

“You could,” Aziraphale muttered miserably. “Snakeskin can be quite—”

“Don’t.”

“Right.”

They sat in uncomfortable silence, which left a space between them to hear the tiny, nearly-infinitesimal _coos_ coming from the bowl and Crowley recoiled, snapping his hand back with a very justifiable _what the fuck_ springing to his lips before Aziraphale stood up suddenly and grabbed Crowley’s lapels.

“They’re not sentient, I swear.”

Aziraphale looked at his hands, clutching, and decided he really ought to let go. What was it that Crowley did in these embarrassing situations? Sleep for a hundred years? Yes. Perhaps Aziraphale should give that a try. He should conk out right now and leave his unconscious body for a while. Try again in a century, see how Crowley’s coming along. He’d look after the shop, surely? Although, why would he, when….oh. Bugger.

But Crowley just sighed, slowly covering Aziraphale’s hands, and did his best to avoid looking at the dish.

“Well,” he said and picked his face up with a smile. “Like you said, eh? I shed. And you don’t make fun of me for that. Although….” He grimaced, briefly, before he fixed that up again. “Are they…?” And here he nearly looked green, but he soldiered on. “Are they any good?”

“Like treacle tart,” Aziraphale groaned towards his shoulder, loathing himself, only for Crowley’s warm thumb to trace around his chin and pick it up. “I’ll put them away?”

“Eh.” Although it was clear Crowley would like that idea. “What happens to them anyways?”

“Hmm? Oh, they just go bad. I could throw them out? But they might cause a bit of an upset in the area.”

“Oh?” 

“Not quite devilish,” Aziraphale amended and couldn’t help a smile at Crowley’s intrigue. “Just a bit of spoiled luck. That’s all they really are, you know. And I *did* put it off, so. I suppose there’s just a lot of them. I’m sorry.”

Crowley took a big, deep breath, pushing it back out through his nose, even as he continued to pet Aziraphale’s cheek, before he wrestled whatever answer he was looking for.

“Alright,” he said at last. “Might as well finish up your little lucky droppings.”

“Moltings!” Aziraphale said through a pout. “Would you like to try—”

“Definitely not.”

“Right,” Aziraphale said quietly, withering again, before Crowley nudged him.

“Just not a big fan of treacle tart.”

They laughed together and the bowl cooed again, enough to make Crowley shiver at the poor attempt of a mindless laugh from the little lucky buddings, and Aziraphale pulled Crowley away from the desk. He did snap, at last, earning a half-hearted protest from the demon.

“I just put them in the ice box,” Aziraphale explained. “They’ll keep for a while, don’t you worry. Now. Should we go out for lunch?”

“Strangely, lost my appetite,” Crowley said carefully, flashing his teeth again. But he hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “No, yeah. Let’s get something. C’mon. My—”

“ _My_ treat,” Aziraphale insisted. Crowley didn’t argue this time.


	2. Lucky 2: Electric Boogaloo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember those Lucky dumpling-like moltings that come off Aziraphale? Ah...to molt during sex.

It began with a little tickle in Aziraphale’s neck. His assumption was that it was some sympathetic response as he sank his teeth into Crowley’s neck, pressing into the long, taught sinews as Crowley rocked his hips up, leaving a gap that was soon occupied by Aziraphale’s hand. He scooped him closer, and it afforded him time and space to sink his hand further and cup that beautiful little arse the demon trapped in his black drainpipes.

“Crowley. Crowley, dearest,” he groaned, pulling off his demon’s flesh with a breathy moan. Crowley was scraping through his hair and it made his whole back tingle. Surely it was that. Those dark careful nails sliding across his scalp, tangling his fluffy curls. Crowley reciprocated by hooking one naked leg around his waist, then the other, and dug his heels in so Aziraphale was pulled down atop him. “I’m going to crush you!” he added with a laugh.

“Never,” Crowley answered and there was such a delicious growl in his voice that Aziraphale had to climb back up and taste it directly from his lips. Another surprised moan, sharp and sweet as chocolate. Their bodies uniting along every plane they could at this angle. Another grip, squeeze, and then Aziraphale pulled his hand back only to snake it between Crowley’s clever legs and tease a pinky along the swollen walls that buttressed against his strained cocks. Such a sensitive addition to his anatomy, almost like a vulva, and Aziraphale was so pleased to hear Crowley cry out towards the pillow and scrabble his hands up and back around Aziraphale’s neck, lacing together to hold on.

“Angel?” The question was punched out of Crowley, forgotten for just a second as Aziraphale squeezed the upper cock and pet it down against Crowley’s taught stomach.

“What is it?” Aziraphale grinned, about to kiss him again, when Crowley pulled a hand away, squinting over Aziraphale’s shoulder to see it.

“You’re bleeding? You’re…no you’re not.”

“I’m what?”

But he spotted the milky little residue on Crowley’s hand and suddenly that ticklish dribble over his shoulder blade made much more sense.

Aziraphale gasped and pulled back, snapping the tethers of their bodies as Crowley’s legs were forced to drop down to the mattress beside them.

“Wait!”

and

“I have to go!” were shouted at each other in different levels of desperation at the same time.

Crowley was quicker, at least. He sat up and hooked their arms together before Aziraphale could think to hop up and run out of the room to safety.

“Wait,” Crowley said again, softer, and gently touched Aziraphale’s neck. When he pulled his hand away, it was not so much a milky dribble as it was a long, pale white string, viscous, not very far away from looking like conventional spunk, connecting them. Aziraphale groaned in embarrassment, almost a while at the very back of his throat. The shudder was involuntary, and the first little bud made itself none somewhere near his spine.

“Crowley, d—”

“Does it hurt?” Ever curious, Crowley was on his knees and beginning to crane over Aziraphale. He was out of Aziraphale’s periphery that the angel had no way of knowing what his face might say. It was a poor and terrible excuse indeed to press his flush face against Crowley’s chest.

“No,” he mumbled pathetically.

The last time he had molted, he had done so in the privacy of his bookshop, top floor, in a closet. Walls were around him, the door was shut, and he had put off a visit from Crowley so he could peel a dozen or so lumpy white pieces off the shadows of his ethereal form. They were doughy things, bigger then because he had put off a molting, with the general shape of very lumpy little cherub babies. Gooey, one might say.

And he had eaten them.

Look, they were mindless little happenstance manifestations of an angel’s Luck, and they were sweet. Literally, quite delectable, if you get past their general shape and the fact that they moved, ever so slightly, and made a pathetically small coo sound.

One does not have to excuse their poor habits if they do so alone and cause no trouble for anyone else.

Still, the horror that Crowley had caught him eating them had been bad enough and he had done his best to smooth over the awkwardness. Now, nearly a year later, he had all but forgotten it, until he saw a small white lump once more in Crowley’s hand, resting there like an undercooked egg.

“Crowley, I—”

Aziraphale had pulled the sheet up to cover his chest and was just about to get up and go somewhere – the water closet, perhaps? They had one on the first floor of their cottage, for guests. Better than the bath connected to their room, where Crowley might find some horrible trace of them after the deed was done – when Crowley tightened his hold around Aziraphale’s forearm, guessing at what he planned to do. Then he lifted the thing and sniffed, his tongue peeking out ever so slightly.

“They don’t really smell like anything either, do they?”

“Not really.”

Crowley lowered his hand, loosened the other holding onto Aziraphale, and gently poked the mess that had not had the chance yet to congeal into its unfortunate shape.

“Do they bleed?”

“What? No!” Aziraphale looked properly horrified at the thought. “They’ve no…internal organs or anything. Or blood! No, that would be more giving birth than—”

Crowley crushed the molting in his hand.

It was very much not unlike an undercooked egg indeed. Even beyond shape, the way it squelched and oozed around Crowley’s fingers.

And then the demon pinched his lips together and smiled. And Aziraphale was not at all certain if he liked it.

“It’ll ruin the sheets,” he said, guessing as Crowley sprawled back again and mashed the goop in his hand a little more.

“Miracle ‘em clean afterwards.”

“You don’t know that’ll—”

“Aziraphale.”

“Mm?”

“I’m about to get lucky.”

The breath between realization and groaning laughter are short and sweet, made shorter as Crowley pulls on Aziraphale’s shoulder and drags him back down. He still flinches at another small budding on his chest, but it’s scooped up like the first one and Crowley touches the white mess to Aziraphale’s lips, pushing to his tongue, where the angel laps and licks, soon wrapping his mouth around Crowley’s fingers and sucking. They are damp, his thighs sliding with the unfortunate perspiration, and he arches when Crowley pries Aziraphale apart and fucks his fingers into him with the Lucky molting coating his fingers. It’s warm and Aziraphale isn’t entirely sure if that tingly feeling is nerves or the improvised lubricant.

He decides he just does not care as he’s guided back over, rolling his hips down atop Crowley, the first cock sliding in with a gentle glide, the second nestling neatly between his cheeks.

There’s a fourth a final molting that rolls down him and Crowley catches it, rubbing it back up against Aziraphale’s swollen clit, mashing it into the same gooey slick as everything else, and rubs Aziraphale to his first orgasm. Certainly not his last for the evening. They might have wrung him dry of his angelic sheddings, but Crowley was hard against him, and he’d return the favour.


End file.
